Really Bad Things
by Pasque06
Summary: A glance at Professor Snape as we know him: the big, evil, greasy, generally unclean, snarky slime-ball who hates children! Seriously. It's on his office door. (61 - holy cow I'm alive)
1. DIS IS DA FIRST ONE YO!

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Really Bad Things

Author: Pasque

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Summary: A cheery glance at Professor Snape as we know him: the big greasy slime-ball who hates children. Seriously. It's on his office door. (updated for teensy errors etc)

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Rating: PG? A bit of language here and there, but nothing that will traumatize you forever.

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Disclaimer: JKR owns the world.

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Once upon a time, in a far away land (Scotland), there lived a man who was deeply proud of his one and only true accomplishment: being the most evil, slimy grease-ball in the entire magical world.

His name was Professor Severus Snape (his middle name was Herbert, but he would have sacrificed his incredible good looks to keep _that_ out of public knowledge), and he lived in the deepest, darkest, most unclean dungeon of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In fact, he'd lived there ever since the fall of Lord Moldyshorts nearly fifteen years ago, but that was not important because, in the grand scheme of things, would anyone ever really want to see Snape in shorts? I ask you.

But back to the story.

It was a rather strenuous existence at first, creating and then maintaining the unofficial title of Supreme Slimy Bastard, but after the first few years Snape found the routine surprisingly easy. He would wake up every morning from his corpse-like position in the middle of his empty, windowless dungeon, get up from the floor, and (having slept in full wizard garb) frolic off to a day of making kids miserable.

…Although perhaps _frolic_ isn't precisely the right word. What would be more appropriate now? Ah yes:_ death march down the corridors like a Nazi, glaring sinisterly at the world with an expression indicative of Impending Doom… or perhaps salted coffee. Damnit Peeves._

After several years passed, Snape found that his stellar reputation often preceded him. New first years were warned far in advance to watch out for any and all tall, black-robed, greasy potential-pedophiles. They started arriving on the first day already terrified beyond all logic, which was more fun than it really should have been worth.

He almost wished that one of them would speak up, and ask him why he was such a hygienically-impaired git. Then he could force them to disembowel pixies in detention all year AND he would win his bet with McGonagall. After all, he would have to kill her if he lost the bet, and he really didn't want the Deputy Headmistress to die (if only because Dumbledore would royally kick his ass)… but the alternative would be to give in and accept her conditions… to wash his hair. Thoroughly. And frankly, given the choice between her life and his hair, he'd keep the hair.

His hair, incidentally, was his pride and joy. The half-witted little cretins that he was forced to teach might call it merely "greasy", but they knew nothing. Snape considered his hair to be the epitome of all foul, gag-inducing creations, unrivaled by the armpit of Satan, or even by Ron Weasley's face. He worked tirelessly to preserve it, oiling it up every now and then with _Lockhart's Magical Bum Cream (guaranteed to man your can!)_. But that's not important either.

All in all, it can be fairly said that Snape's life was pretty good. He had plenty of miniature wizards and witches to passionately loathe, and a whole labyrinth of slimy dungeons to himself where, when he wasn't teaching, he could be Alone.

Indeed, Snape enjoyed his life until the arrival of Harry J. Potter, the embodiment of all really bad things - the horrible, evil, near-sighted _spawn_ of his enemy. The only thing _more _despicable than James Potter, as Snape very quickly learned, was James with specs.

It all started one fateful September.

It was a pretty crappy September, as Septembers go when one must confront the annual torture of new first years. But this one would be worse. Snape knew, as he stood in his malodorous office on September the first, that there were only two things in this world of which he could be absolutely certain: 1. He would eventually die and spend eternity in hell, playing strip poker with his Aunt Gertrude. 2. Harry Potter suxors.

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If only I had been a lumberjack, thought Snape wistfully.

"Severus," a familiar voice came from just outside his office, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Snape looked up from where he had been scratching the words _I HATE CHILDREN_ onto the inside of his office door with a shard of broken glass. He hastily tossed the piece of glass aside and yanked the door open to see the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore.

With a supreme effort, Snape did not slam the door shut again.

Instead, he scowled and shifted so that he was blocking the doorway. All he needed now was for Dumbledore to see the words on his door and he'd be bouncing out of Hogwarts on his magically creamed can.

"The Sorting Ceremony will begin in twenty-three minutes, six seconds," said the Headmaster cheerfully. "Fifty-one new students this year!"

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Fifty-one pairs of eyes to gouge out Muggle-style, thought Snape. What he said instead was: "How lovely, Albus. Perhaps they will prove more competent than last years' students."

"Undoubtedly," said Dumbledore with a straight face.

Snape bit back a scathing remark about the sub-crustacean intelligence of last years' morons and forced a twisted smile.

"Twenty-two minutes and seven seconds," said Dumbledore after a few moments.

"Fine," Snape grumped, looking away. "I shall attend the Ceremony this year." He started to close the door -

"Severus."

He frowned.

"No repeats of last year, Severus."

Snape growled an affirmative and began to shut the door again, but Dumbledore placed a hand on it to stop him.

"I mean it," said the old man firmly. "It took us two days to find all of the pieces, and I'm quite sure that none of _this_ years' first years would fancy a stay in the infirmary when they've only just arrived."

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Alright, alright, keep your beard on. "You have no bloody proof," he said with a scowl.

Dumbledore gave him a knowing look and turned to leave. "By the way," he added casually, throwing a glance at Snape from over the tops of his half-moon glasses. "I know you don't hate children. They are delightful."

Snape slammed the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily. After several minutes, he retrieved his shard of broken glass and began retracing his letters, etching them even deeper into his heavy wooden door. God, he hated Septembers.


	2. WOAH ANOTHER!

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Really Bad Things II / or / **The Chapter That Isn't Really _a Chapter, if I may say so._**

Author: Pasque

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Summary: A continuation to Really Bad Things: wherein Snape receives a poem, the Sorting Hat gets cheeky, Dumbledore is oblivious (or is he?) and Daytona readers get their weekly advice.

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Rating: PG (13? Uh.) – mild cranial pain and/or nausea may occur.

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Disclaimer: JKR owns the world.

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A/N: I'm alive! waves I apologize for not being funny! Now read this miserable excuse for a fanfic... thing!

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When we last saw him, Professor Severus Snape (resident greasy antagonist, Potions Master, l33+ spy for the forces of Snarky, et al), was expressing his innermost feelings to his office door with a shard of glass.

Now. Being an astute and mind-bogglingly intelligent reader, _you_ probably assumed that he was wearing gloves. However, it just so happens that Madam Rosmerta had borrowed his last pair of impenetrable dragon-hide gloves that very week to "deal" with a particularly rowdy customer… Snape was therefore, shall we say, sans-gloves.

It is for this reason that, while stomping angrily up to the Great Hall later that evening, he left behind him a rather alarming trail of blood.

Needless to say, no respectable Potions Master with balls of solid tofu (A/N: it's true) ever, ever notices his own wounds. (A/N: No respectable author ever writes ridiculous A/N's either, but hey, it's me!)

So after billowing out of the dungeons, up the stairs, and halfway across the school with several dramatic flips and flairs of his cloak, Snape came to an abrupt stop in the hallway only when it became apparent that something was blocking his way. Upon closer inspection, indeed it appeared to be a clump of students. Disgusting.

"Professor…" squeaked something within the Clump.

He frowned. It was addressing _him_.

Several small arms lifted and numerous tiny fingers pointed at him silently. Perplexed, Snape looked down.

It seemed a small dark lake had formed around his feet. How odd. Wait – holy f –

With a startled shout, Snape leapt backwards, slipped in the puddle of blood, and bounced back down a flight of stairs. Staggering to his feet, he forgot about the students entirely (who were only staring uselessly at him anyway, not that he was checking) and ran like hell, err... glided in the opposite direction.

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In the Great Hall, as the older students began pouring in and taking their seats, Professor Dumbledore pulled out his pocket watch, smiled at the little revolving planets, and clicked it shut.

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Five minutes later, Snape arrived in that very same Great Hall with his right hand wrapped up and concealed within excess black robes (billowing sleeves _are_ multi-functional), looking both irritated and considerably paler than usual.

Avoiding Dumbledore's cheery grin, he marched to the very end of the staff table and sat rigidly on the edge of the last available seat, in between Professor Sinistra and a man with the foulest turban he'd ever seen.

Scowling, he resigned himself to an evening of avoiding conversation with them.

With his left hand, Snape pulled out a vial of standard healing potion and poured the lot of it into his goblet of red wine, looking forward to the added effect of alcohol on his nervous system. Swiftly, he downed it all in one gulp and slammed the goblet back on the table a little too roughly. A few heads turned; Snape sneered right back at his confused colleagues, and they returned their attentions to the students.

As his wounded hand was beginning to heal itself underneath the table, something else caught his attention: a little folded piece of parchment poking out from beneath his dinner plate. He glared at the offending slip of parchment, which had "Severus" written in flawless calligraphy on the top of it, and glanced around the table to see if anyone was watching him. Aside from Dumbledore, who gave him a cheery grin, the only person paying him the slightest bit of attention was Filch, seated at the far end of the table and gazing at him lustily from behind greasy strands of dirt-encrusted hair. Snape shuddered and looked away.

Grabbing the parchment, he tried to unfold it inconspicuously under the table. It was folded like an accordion, with writing on every line. Clever.

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Roses are red. Violets are blue.

How strangely endearing. Side note: Snape loved poetry. In fact, (though it was unknown by the rest of the world for obvious reasons) he was well-versed in every romantic poet known to wizard and Mugglekind, as well as all authors of classical literature, in addition to being fluent in seventeen (hundred) languages, obviously the better to read aforementioned literature in his free time between classes and wooing women. These talents are necessary – no, _essential_ – to Evil Espionage. He unfolded the paper once more.

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You look like a vampire.

Better and better. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware of the great double doors swinging open, and Professor McGonagall striding into the Hall with a cluster of jittery midgets in tow. He kept unfolding.

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And you smell like a pile of decaying rat carcasses. Wash your hair, pasty.

Snape coughed loudly and the entire student body turned to stare at him. Years of experience automatically went to work – he stifled his cough, cleared his expression, and directed an icy glare towards the Gryffindor table.

The staff members (none of whom cared to assure themselves of Snape's continued respiration) only edged away from him and smiled expectantly at Professor McGonagall. The Deputy Headmistress, for her part, frowned disapprovingly and began to explain the Sorting to the first years.

The spotlight being fully off of him, Snape shoved the parchment in his pocket and turned to pin Filch with a murderous glare. The crusty old man, who had been leering unpleasantly in his direction, raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. Snape scowled. _I don't believe you for a second you vile cat molester. _Snape ground his teeth.

In front of them, the first year students were prepared and McGonagall was placing the Sorting Hat on the three-legged stool. She glanced up at him in the process. He glared back at her, hating her evil, evil face, but the implacable witch merely smirked and looked back at the students.

The Sorting Hat opened its brim wide and sang, in a highly melodious, jovial voice:

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"Oooh, I'd like to tell the story

Of how I came to be

But frankly it's damned boring

So shut up, sit down - let's eat!"

The Hall was silent in disbelief.

Even Snape's face lost its customary sneer as he stared at the Sorting Hat, which appeared to be doing a little dance, inasmuch as an enchanted hat can dance.

Professor McGonagall yanked the Hat up by its tip and jammed it on her head. While she stood there, obviously fighting a vigorous mental battle, the rest of the Hall hung in suspense. No one dared speak, much less laugh – for if one person laughed, they knew, not a single person would be able to restrain himself from bursting into laughter as well.

Finally, with a triumphant smile, the Deputy Headmistress replaced the Hat on its stool, straightened her glasses, and stepped away once more. Without a word, she unfurled a long scroll and began calling names in a crisp, no-nonsense voice.

"Abbot, Hannah!"

And so the Sorting went forth.

Almost immediately, Snape began to tune out her voice, having had years of practice not listening to the Deputy Headmistress. As the Hat sorted the students one by one, he lost himself in pleasant thoughts about the bat wing and bubotuber pus mixture that had been stewing on low heat in his bedroom for the past five months, and the endless potion possibilities that it –

"Potter, Harry!"

Snape snapped out of it with a jolt and remembered why he'd been dreading this September with such anxiety. _Potter_… that abominable little pale, peaky clone. Trembling with suppressed hatred, Snape glared holes into the back of the boy's head.

The Sorting Hat took it's bloody time, too. _Give me a break_, he thought with a sneer, _he's in bloody –_

"GRYFFINDOR!"

With that word, expected though it was, Snape knew with a sickly certainty that he was in for a long, long seven years.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, with few things interrupting Snape's glare, (which would have otherwise remained fixated on Potter the entire time) small annoyances such as eating (he stabbed the table next to his plate angrily), a note from Dumbledore, and the moldy turban man trying to engage him in conversation.

Ah yes, Dumbledore's note. It appeared in between his potatoes and unidentifiable green matter about 20 minutes into the meal, taking Snape by surprise when he hit the parchment with his fork. It read: '_See me after supper - Ice Mice' _in the Headmaster's unmistakable loopy handwriting.

Snape's scowl deepened.

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"You've got _what_?"

"Yes, Severus. It will be safer here, as you know. However," Dumbledore paused and ran one heavily-ringed hand through his silver beard, which shifted and mumbled happily. "I will require your help in the process, for I intend to make the Stone absolutely untouchable whilst it is here."

"We will do everything we can, of course," McGonagall promptly said.

"Aye," Hagrid chimed.

Quirrell drooled.

Snape frowned.

"Hagrid, your contribution is already in place, and now that the students have been warned, it is time to implement the… further measures of security that we spoke of at our last meeting," Dumbledore said with a determined look at his staff. "By the end of this week I intend to have five levels of security in place. Professor McGonagall, yours is completed I believe?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

"Very good. Professors Flitwick and Sprout are meeting with me tonight. The rest of you, I'll be in touch."

"Aye," Hagrid nodded, hoisting a pair of dead chickens onto his back and turning to leave.

Snape frowned even more viciously. It caught Dumbledore's eye.

"Something you'd like to add, Severus?"

"Only that…" He paused, aware that the rest of the faculty were now focused on his words. "Are you quite certain that this is the best place for it, Headmaster? The Gringotts goblins –"

"…have already nearly lost it once," Dumbledore shook his head. "The Philosopher's Stone is one of the most rare and valuable magical artifacts left in this world. The ability to turn any metal into gold is desirable in itself, but eternal life… that is something many would kill for. And –" he added with a smile, "there is no one I trust more than my staff. Handkerchief, my boy?"

Snape stared, but Dumbledore was not looking at him. Instead, he was holding out a white handkerchief to Professor Quirrell, who looked to be drooling up a miniature pond on the front of his robes.

Disgusted, Snape turned and left.

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Safely back within the dark, soggy confines of his office, the Potions Master doffed his cumbersome black robes and sat at his desk in naught but his favorite red boxers.

Just kidding.

Safely back within the dark, soggy confines of his office, the Potions Master threw himself into his desk chair with a sigh and propped his feet up on the edge of his desk. The air was heavy and still – finally, his well-earned peace and quiet.

Comfortably settled many stories beneath the rest of the school, Snape yawned and reached towards his desk to grab the stacks of papers he'd been working on before he'd gotten so distracted by the dire fact of it being Septembere 1st. Badly in need of forgetting that he had at least five years of daling with Potter's spawn ahead of him, he rummaged through the papers and began to consult his notes for 7th year Potions.

Before he could fully get to concentrating, however, an obnoxiously large barn owl came screeching through the door of his office. Surprised, Snape glanced at the clock. 10 pm on the dot. Bloody hell.

The foul creature landed ungracefully on his desk, scattering papers and bottles everywhere. With a growl, Snape snatched the parchments from its leg and without a word, pelted the owl right back out his heavily-graffitied door. It landed in the Potions classroom with an indignant squawk, and was on its way.

With a satisfied smirk, Snape unfolded his letters as he did every week – with slight trepidation and a hint of morbid curiosity. There were only two this week, he noted, thoroughly disappointed. Perhaps that was why they'd sent the damned remedial owl.

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Dear Snape,

One of my potions went horribly awry and now everyone I talk to falls asleep! What should I do?

Tired of it all,

Yorkshire

Snape, placing the letter on top of the other papers on his lap, paused and reached to his desk to dip his quill in a generous amount of ink.

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'Dear Tired,' he scribbled in the space beneath the letter in his spidery Evil-handwriting.

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To the extent of my knowledge, no potion exists that is capable of causing voice-induced slumber. I'm left to conclude that you must be the most hideously boring person in the British Isles, and cordially suggest that you do the world a favor and off yourself posthaste.

Sincerely,

Professor Snape

Yes, that was good enough. Snape laid it aside to dry and turned to the next – wait, what's wrong? Oh dear, did I forget to mention? – Professor Snape, along with being the most supreme Slimy Bastard in Hogwarts history (see _Hogwarts, A History_, page 450, the little grey box on the side), and the biggest, greasiest git in the wizarding world, had many other hobbies. In his spare time, he ran an advice column.

Oh, the _Daily Prophet_ doesn't print it, of course. "Dear Snape," as the column is aptly named, is printed in two papers in the entire world, although it's interesting to note that it _is_ the only reason why those newspapers are still in business. One is the_ Daily Schwagestaauuhhhj_, a less-than-profitable sideline of an unknown printing company in Germany, and the other is a small, one-man production in the United States, the _Daytona Drivel_, last rumored to be delivering out of Florida.

But the money was better than the Hogwarts salary, and Snape gave excellent advice.

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Dear Snape,

I haven't had a body in 10 years and it's getting rather tiresome. This year I finally met the man for me, who let me.. live with him. He's a nice fellow but all he wants to do is talk about his feelings and I'm just trying to rule the world! Ha ha! Any advice?

Totally not moldy OR in shorts,

Scotland

Snape rolled his eyes. For several minutes the only sound in the office was the scratching of his quill as he meticulously wrote out a reply.

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Dear Not moldy,

Perhaps you would benefit from some Siamese Tea From Uzbekistan? It's my own personal brew; I'll even send you some, free of charge!

Your friend,

Professor Snape

With another casual look at the time (10:17), Snape dropped his feet to the ground and threw the letters onto the corner of his desk to be mailed in the morning. With a sigh, he resigned himself to another year of hellish school teaching and was about to retire to bed when –

"Severus? May I come in?"

Snape closed his eyes for half of a second, wishing he didn't recognize that voice. Then he turned around swiftly and faced the Headmaster for the third time that day.

Dumbledore was not smiling. For once. Taken aback, Snape raised his eyebrows but did not speak.

"My boy, I came across something rather… surprising this evening while… eh, researching." He held out a slip of parchment.

Snape took it silently and peered at it with a perfectly neutral expression. It appeared to be a printed copy of a web page, not that he had the faintest idea what a web page was. Not just any page… but Ebay.

"'One Philosopher's Stone, mint condition, totally works,'" Dumbledore recited what was written in the center of the parchment. "'Turn your desk lamp into gold! Live forever! Only 63 million Galleons for this priceless stone.' Read the screen name, Severus."

Snape frowned.

"Read it."

"S3\/3RUZPWNZ," he read with a deep (deep, deep, deep, dark, evil, cantankerous, etc.) scowl.

A second later, he realized that he'd just admitted his guilt by knowing what a screen name was. Breathing steadily, he kept his eyes on the parchment and hoped Dumbledore wouldn't notice.

The Headmaster took the parchment again and returned it to his pocket. Snape, standing there and fidgeting beneath his robes, had no choice but to meet the old man's gaze. It was not a happy gaze.

"Uhh… what's a webpage?" he asked, taking one last stab at innocence.

Dumbledore continued to stare.

"It wasn't me," he blurted, and then could have kicked himself.

Dumbledore grinned. "Of course it wasn't my boy! Well! That's all I needed to know!" His beard twitched in agreement. With an amiable smile, the Headmaster swirled around and left the office, his voluminous robes swishing around the corner after him.

When he was long gone, Snape slammed the door shut and stalked back to his desk. Next to a small cauldron of bubbling rabbit entrails, and on top of an old book, lay a very inviting shard of glass.

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A/N: Thanks to Stephanie for helping me when I IMed her this evening with a desperate plea ("STEPH! What's a synonym for undress?"), and also for being so accepting of my eccentric authorial hobbies. ("Oh God. You. write. fanfiction?")

Siamese Tea From Uzbekistan. It's an acronym. cymbals crash

Also, I'll bet you ANYTHING Dumbledore would love the Mai ah Hii Song.


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